


Bright

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25057963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When he steps off the boat it’s like the Earth has moved closer to the sun.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 4
Kudos: 103
Collections: Anonymous





	Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble from a lost Summer. 
> 
> (For posterity* #repost)

It’s too bright. Patrick’s not ready for it. When he steps off the boat it’s like the earth has moved closer to the sun. He spins his hat forward and sighs. He has to squint even behind his sunglasses. The sky’s a cartoonish sort of blue that looks painted over. He doesn’t remember ever seeing a sky that blue before. Not a single cloud to be spotted as far as the eye can see. 

The woman clears her throat and Patrick realizes he’s been standing on the plank for a good minute doing nothing. He awkwardly nods his thanks and starts walking down the wooden path. He doesn’t know where he’s going. The path goes over the ocean, towards the beach, and through the trees behind it. It must lead to the house. Patrick switches his bag’s handle to his other shoulder and pulls out his phone. No signal.

 _Just us and the fucking fish_ , he thinks, and shoves it back inside his khakis’ pocket. The closer he gets to the beach the more anxious he feels. He’s sweating like a bitch, and not just because of the sun. Shit, he’ll probably get chased out of here faster than he arrived. Maybe he should’ve told the woman to wait. Patrick glances back at the plank, but the boat’s already getting smaller in the horizon. 

He’s here now. That has to count for something. It has to. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t. 

Patrick blows out a breath and continues walking. He lathered himself with enough sunscreen to block out a fucking laser but it doesn’t seem to matter. His skin’s already burning. Patrick walks faster.

Once he gets to the beach it becomes clear the island’s even smaller than it seemed from the pictures. It’s tiny, actually. Patrick maps it in his head as he walks. It’s round and flat, no more than two miles across. Sand surrounds the entire island, but most of it is trees, green and vibrant. Once he gets underneath them, it becomes a little easier to breathe. The vegetation on the ground resembles wheat. Patrick grazes a hand over it and it’s surprisingly soft.

It’s like a postcard. And just as quiet.

So quiet Patrick can hear the plankboards creak beneath his sandals and birds sing up in the trees.

The house appears soon enough. It’s perched between the jungle and the sand and it follows the island’s style: small, quaint, painted white and blue, almost rustic if it wasn’t for the solar panels on the roof. The back of the house doesn’t have a door, but he can see a porch on the right, and a balcony starting at the left corner, facing the beach.

There are clothes thrown over the railing. Patrick stops in his tracks like someone squeezed his heart tight between their fingers. An insect buzzes past him and he jumps.

“Come on, Kane.” He mutters to himself. He switches the bag to his other shoulder, again, and forces his feet to move.

 _I’m here now_ , Patrick thinks as he walks closer _._ He goes around the porch to find the front door unlocked, and two brown flip-flops thrown carelessly over the doormat. The familiarity of the sight makes him smile. He picks up the flip-flops, straightens the doormat with the tip of his sandal, and pushes the door open. Patrick sets down the flip-flops near the wall, along with his own sandals and his bag. He looks around and exhales a long, deep breath. 

They’d talked about this place before. Not this place, just a _place_ , and this is it. This is the place. Patrick flips his hat backwards and pockets his sunglasses.

Incense’s burning. White sage, maybe, he still can’t tell that stuff apart. The opposite wall is just a single glass door, leading to the balcony, and then the beach, thirty feet ahead, where soft waves kiss the sand, framed by birds-of-paradise and green palm trees. Patrick notices the yoga mat and the discarded boxers outside the balcony and feels a familiar tug in the bottom of his stomach. He thinks about going for a swim, just to take the edge of, but he doesn’t have the nerve.

So, instead, Patrick sneaks inside the kitchen. He finds it exactly as he expected. The sink’s filled with pans and dishes and the stove’s stained with olive oil. Before he can second guess himself, Patrick grabs the nearest luffa sponge and starts going through the shit in the sink. It takes him less than ten minutes to wash and stack the pans and dishes on the counter next to it. The stove’s a lot easier. Just a swipe of a cloth and the stains disappear. Patrick puts the curry and paprika back inside the spice rack and checks the counters for anything else he might have missed. Spotless, just like that. Jonny’s such a fucking slob.

Patrick opens the fridge. (He knows he’s stalling.) Inside he finds vegetables, oat milk, a couple of coconuts, bananas and apples. When he moves on to the freezer he can’t help but let out a snort. It’s bursting with fish and salt. From the whites of their eyes Patrick guesses they were caught earlier.

Someone had a productive morning, shit.

“Freak.” He says to the empty kitchen. His voice sounds besotted to his own ears. He chugs the water bottle on the counter and sighs. This is pathetic. He’s given himself enough time. He has to face the music, sooner rather than later. He’s already here, it’s not like he can fucking hide. Plus, Jonny’s gonna wake up eventually, and the guy is like a hound. He’ll know Patrick’s here before he even opens his eyes.

The only bedroom is at the end of the corridor, and the door is wide open.

Jonny’s sleeping on his stomach, butt-ass naked, of course, there would be something wrong with him if he wasn't. Not that Patrick’s complaining. There have been times in the past where he wished Jonny had a little more modesty, maybe a little more shame, just to keep things interesting. They’re so used to each other’s bodies, Patrick’s always dreading the moment he’ll look at Jonny and not feel a damn thing.

Looking at him now, though, _fuck_ , Patrick’s sure that’ll never happen. He’ll never stop feeling it: the sudden, heavy pull between his legs, the way his mouth goes dry. Patrick walks over the bed with careful steps and sits on the edge of the mattress. His hand reaches over to palm Jonny’s ass but he decides against it at the last moment. Jonny’s fucked him up for less. The ice is already so thin. He drags the back of his forefinger down Jonny’s thigh and contents himself with knowing Jonny’s real. He’s warm as fuck, too. 

_My little heater_ , Patrick thinks, even though there’s nothing little about him. He watches Jonny’s shoulders for a spasm, his tell when he’s pretending to be asleep, but they continue to rise and fall, rise and fall, slow and steady. His face doesn’t look relaxed, though. There’s a crease between Jonny’s eyebrows, and his eyelids are trembling ever so slightly. He’s dreaming.

Patrick sighs. “What’re you dreaming of?” He murmurs, and Jonny’s nose twitches. “I hope it’s me.” He leans down and kisses the ridge of muscle on Jonny’s shoulder. A weight dissipates from his chest, and Patrick opens his mouth to taste him there. Jonny tastes like coconut oil, sweat, and a hint of something that’s just his. And Patrick’s. “Wake up, daddy’s home.” Patrick says and kisses the skin again. He stays put when Jonny exhales harshly through his nose and turns on his back to face him. He looks out of it, blissed out. One of his hands comes up to touch Patrick’s face, and Patrick gives it a peck. “Hey.”

Jonny blinks. His eyebrows furrow together, and he blinks again. He grabs Patrick by the chin, then by the neck, almost like he’s inspecting him. “M’ not…?” He whispers, voice rough with sleep. Suddenly, his eyes widen, and he pushes Patrick’s face away. “Oh, fuck off, Kaner.” 

“Nope, too late for that.” Patrick quips back automatically. Jonny sits up, and Patrick doesn’t bother hiding where his eyes go.

“Who the fuck brought you here?”

“Mr. US dollar.” Jonny clicks his tongue and Patrick adds, “The lady at the port. I showed her the e-mail and my wallet, she didn’t ask for more.” 

Jonny jumps off the bed and looks around the floor. “Fuck that, I don’t want you here.” He spits, still clearly searching for something. Patrick appreciates the view for a while, even as dread curls at his stomach. He’s _not_ leaving.

“Should’ve called ahead, then.”

Jonny turns to him and points a finger in his face. “Don’t be a smartass, eh? Not now.” Jonny says, and Patrick holds up his hands in mock surrender. Jonny rolls his eyes and looks around again. “Where the fuck…”

Patrick sighs and takes off his hat. His curls are glued against his forehead. He runs a hand through his hair. “They’re on the balcony.”

“What?”

“Your boxers, Aquaman. You left them on the balcony.”

For a moment, all they hear is the faint, low echo of the waves outside and the birds singing in the trees. They look at each other. Patrick wants to reach for him, but he knows the moment he tries Jonny’s gonna lash out. He tries anyway. He stretches an arm to grab Jonny’s hand and Jonny swats it away.

“No, fuck off. Fuck. Off. You got some fuckin’ nerve—dropping in here like that, after two days of nothing. You make me get into that plane alone, and then you just… fuckin’ unbelievable, eh, Kaner, this is fuckin’ unbelievable. You’ve pulled some shit with me before but let me tell you something, we’re gonna have a real talk, you and me, because I’m not about to start a life together with someone who—” His yelling continues as he disappears down the corridor, off to get his boxers, angry and naked, dick swinging between his legs. Patrick closes his eyes and lets his body fall back into the mattress.

He’s home.

After a minute or so of silence, Patrick hears Jonny stomping back towards the bedroom and readies himself for more yelling. He might deserve it, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. He’ll let Jonny run his lungs and then apologize.

Patrick’s wondering if it’ll take more than two days for Jonny to let him sleep in here when the bed dips and there’s a mouth against his. Patrick moans. He wraps his legs around Jonny’s waist and is disappointed to discover Jonny did end up finding his boxers. He kisses Patrick like he's starving for it, always, no matter how long it's been. “I love you.” Patrick says the second they break for air. Jonny still looks pissed.

His cheeks are all red, though, and that’s always a good sign. “Mm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Mm.” 

“Jonny, look at me.”

Jonny does. He looks, and looks some more, until he seems to find whatever he’s looking for. His eyes soften at the edges, and he leans down to kiss Patrick again, first on the mouth and then down his jaw. “Nice defensive play in the kitchen.” He grunts against Patrick’s neck

Patrick’s so overwhelmed with relief he can’t help the laugh that bubbles out him. He runs his fingers through Jonny’s hair and thinks that maybe taking that extra day to get a ring wasn’t so crazy after all.

*


End file.
